Old Poet

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What are these young girls doing
Crowding at my gate
As though they came a-wooing
So many and so late?

Are not the songs they render,
Their twilight serenade,
Passionate songs and tender
That in my youth I made?

A truce to all romancing,
Old man, and save your breath.
They are gathered to the dancing,
To dance your dance of death.

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